


Whatever Happens Next

by Ranni



Series: Reassembling [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni
Summary: After the Avengers fell apart, Tony was alone. Then Clint showed up at the Tower, ready to be arrested.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place sometime after Captain America: Civil War. The entire team has scattered to the wind.

   Tony was alone.

  
   The Tower was empty for the first time in years, only Tony rattling around with his robots. When he had been with Pepper and she had been traveling for business the Tower had never felt so empty, so cold in her absence. It felt that way now, now that she was gone and was never coming back.

  
   He had filled the rooms with larger than life Avengers, and those had been the best years of his whole life. Silent, simmering Natasha, who watched them all suspiciously half the time and harped on them mercilessly the other half. Clint, her assassin twin, who accepted everyone and anyone, a spy who incongruously seemed completely without guile. Thor, who came and went dramatically, who was loud and full of fun, who brooded and laughed with equal flourish. Steady Steve, who loved his team, loved his country, and wanted the best for both, while not daring to want anything for himself. And Bruce, Tony's best friend, his science bro, with whom he had more fun and more interesting conversation than he had ever dreamt possible.

  
   All of them gone now, and he was never getting them back.

  
   He had tried to find them. Thor he had never been able to contact, and that hadn't changed now. He wondered if the Asgardian knew what had happened. He had never been gone so long before, and that made Tony suspect Thor _did_ know. Bruce had been in hiding with no word since Ultron. Tony had hoped Bruce would reach out to him eventually, but he never had. Steve, Tony knew, had broken Clint and the others out of prison, seemingly with the help of Natasha. They had all parted ways after, all disappeared into the wind. Against his better judgement, Tony had finally gone to the Barton farm a few weeks later. It was silent, the family vanished, though all of their things remained. He had stopped looking after that. None of them would be found if they did not wish to be. Not by him, at least.

  
Tony sat in the too quiet living room, rain drumming outside, the lights so dim they may as well have been off. He had a scotch in his hand but didn't bother drinking it. The fun had been drained from everything, even that. He set the glass down with disgust. He thought about calling Rhodey, one of the few people he had left. Rhodey would talk to him, come over if he wanted. But Tony did not want that. Not today.

  
   He wanted those empty rooms filled again, wanted to go back and choose differently, wanted to pull his friends in close instead of driving them away.

  
  "Sir." FRIDAY's voice was soft but still startled him in the silence. "Clint Barton is requesting to come up to see you."

  
  "What?!?" Tony shot to his feet, heart pounding. Something different, for the first time in a long time. Barton was the last one he would have expected. _No one goes to ground like Clint_ , Natasha's voice echoed in his mind, and she had been right. It was like the man had never existed, and Tony had resigned himself to believing he would never see him again. But now he was here.

  
  "Let him up!" Tony snapped. "And turn the lights on for God's sake!" He watched elevator doors eagerly. For a fleeting moment he wondered if Clint had come to kill him, but just as quickly dismissed the thought. Clint had killed people for a living, but a killer was not who he was. And anyway, Tony was willing to risk it to see his friend again.

  
  After what seemed like endless minutes, the elevators whisked silently open, and there he was. Clint Barton stepped into the room for the first time in over a year.

  
  Tony gasped, he couldn't help it.

  
  Clint stood there, soaked to the skin. He had a nondescript backpack on his shoulders, wore dark jeans and shoes, a black wool coat. An anonymous New Yorker outfit--Tony would not have glanced at him twice on the street, even though his eyes were constantly seeking their faces. Clint's brown hair was short and plastered to his forehead from the rain, his skin and even his lips were pale, like milk. His eyes were a disconcerting combination of wary and empty. Tony did not think he had ever seen anyone look more hopeless.

  
   "Clint," Tony breathed, and the other man did not respond at all, other than to look at him. Tony moved slowly, not wanting to startle him, and Clint watched him blankly, not reacting defensively at all when Tony finally moved close enough and wrapped his arms around him. "I'm so glad you're here. So happy to see you again."

  
He hugged Clint gently, and it was like hugging a wet statue. Finally Clint moved one hand up robotically and pressed it lightly against Tony's back until Tony finally pulled away. "Come in," he urged, "come in. Oh my God, get that coat off, you look like a drowned rat." Tony grinned hopefully, but Clint did not catch the smile as he would have done before. He kept staring blankly forward. Tony's smile faded. "Clint?"

  
  Clint cleared his throat and looked as if it took effort for him to find words, to make himself speak. "I'm..." His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat again. There was a rattle in his chest and Tony realized he was sick. "I'm here to...to face whatever happens next." He dropped the back pack from his shoulders to the floor with a soft thud. Stood there with his palms open, defenselessly. Waiting.

  
  Waiting to be taken down, Tony realized with horror. Of course. The last time they had spoken, Clint had been in prison, and   Tony had helped to put him there. "I'm not calling Ross, if that's what you mean," Tony said, eyes searching Clint's hollow face. "That's not what I--I never wanted that, for any of you. That's over, that's all over."

  
  "Maybe for you." Tony winced. "My family is gone. They're safe. Wanda is gone and safe. All my accounts are settled except for this last one. No one has to look for me. No one has to look for them. I'm right here, and I'm ready to let whatever happens next just...happen."

  
  "Stop it," Tony whispered. _Don't be this,_ he wanted to say, _don't be this ghost of yourself_. It was almost worse than not getting Clint back at all, getting this shell. "That's over, you can be with your family again, it is safe."

  
  "No." The word was dull. "I'll never be with them again. They are gone, and no one, not even if they looked a hundred years, will ever find them. _No one_." He looked pointedly at Tony then, the faintest glimmer of the old Hawkeye in his eyes.

  
Tony was stung by the subtle accusation. "You say that like _I_ would go after them. Like I would go around hurting a woman and her kids."

  
   That flash was in his eyes again. "If you thought it was 'the right thing' you would. You would feel bad about it and all, but you would."

  
    _He knows all. He sees all. He knows what's best for you._ Hawkeye's taunts from the cell. Tony had been ashamed then, and angry. But he was not angry anymore, just tired. And lonely.

  
  "Come in," he tried again, and took Clint's arm gently. The other man didn't resist, letting himself be pulled further into the room. "Come in, and let's just talk. You look-- you look terrible, to be honest. Here, take off your coat."

  
   Clint didn't respond, so Tony carefully reached up and undid the buttons himself, Clint's eyes watching. Tony peeled the sodden garment off and swore under his breath. Underneath Clint was wearing a plain grey T-shirt, also soaked through and clinging to his skin. Clinging so tightly that Tony could easily see all of the ribs that stood out, the collar bone that protruded sharply. Whatever Clint had in that backpack, it was certainly wasn't food.

  
  "Jesus, man." Tony said gently. "Come on...here, sit down." He pulled him, still unresisting, to the couch. Clint sat down woodenly. Raised his arm slowly and coughed wetly into his elbow. "I'm going to grab you some dry clothes, okay? You stay here and just relax. Okay?" No response.

  
    Tony turned and almost ran to his bedroom, grabbing the first things he could find, more than half afraid that if he took too long, Clint would have vanished by the time he got back. Less than three minutes later Tony sped back into the living room, but Clint was still sitting on the couch in the same position, his back straight and stiff, as if he was afraid to settle back into it. He was shivering a little.

  
    "Here we go," Tony said with forced cheerfulness. "Something a little drier, huh? Why don't you get those on and I'll make us a sandwich or something. You look like you could use one. Or two."

  
Clint took the clothes and looked down at them, then back at Tony uncertainly. Tony reached out and pulled Clint carefully to his feet. "Do you think--" Clint started hesitantly, then pulled his hands away from Tony's and coughed into his elbow again. It sounded like pneumonia, Tony decided. "Would you mind if I took a shower?"

  
   Clint's voice was so defeated that Tony felt like crying. Actually felt the tears threaten to well in his eyes. "Of course not!" he said too heartily. "That sounds like a great idea. Warm you up a little. You remember the guest room down the hall, right? It has a nice bathroom and there are toiletries for visitors. Or you can use your old apartment. It's been ready for you, this whole time." All their apartments had been.

  
   "The guest room would be great," Clint said and moved toward it. Tony expected Clint to watch him from the corner of his eye, but he did not. Not worried that Tony would sneak up behind him, or just not caring. He moved stiffly, uncomfortably, and Tony thought of that deep cough and wondered if Clint's ribs hurt. Or were maybe broken.

  
   Tony crossed into the kitchen area, where they had taken turns cooking large meals. For a moment he could almost see Steve standing at the stove, wearing the "Kiss the Cook" apron that Tony had bought a joke and insisted everyone wear while cooking--for safety purposes, of course--frowning at a cookbook. Tony considered, then discarded, the idea of cooking something now, opting for something quicker, assembling the sandwich he had suggested earlier. He made himself one also, thinking Clint may be more likely to eat with company. He added an apple to each plate and, after a moment's thought, poured two big glasses of milk. He set the plates on the island almost at the same moment that Clint reappeared, swimming in Tony's clothes, his own wet ones held wadded up in his hands.

  
  "I'll take those, we can get them washed up for you...or dried at the very least." Tony held out a hand, and Clint reluctantly handed them over. Tony set them aside and gestured to the food, "Let's eat, huh? Sandwiches okay?"

  
Clint nodded minutely and sat down on the stool across from Tony, considered the plate a moment, then picked up his sandwich and took a small bite. His breathing was slow and labored, and when he took a long drink of milk a moment later, he almost gasped for breath afterward.

  
  "You're sick," Tony couldn't help but say finally. "I can call a doctor for you. I _want_ to call a doctor for you."

  
   Clint shook his head, as Tony had guessed he would. "That's okay. I have some medicine in my bag. I went to a clinic a few days back and they gave me something."

  
  "I don't think it's working, buddy."

  
Clint shrugged. He took another bite of his sandwich and then set it down. He looked at Tony, who looked levelly back. "What now?" he asked simply.

  
   "I don't know," Tony said honestly. "But I know you should eat something, maybe see another doctor, and get a good night's sleep. And you can do all of those things here. You are more than welcome, you always have been."

  
   Clint didn't answer. Stared down at a spot on the table. The remoteness of him scared Tony a little. Like all of the charm and fun that had made him Clint had been scooped neatly out, leaving only a body behind. Finally he stirred a little and said, "Once Laura and the kids were gone, and Wanda was settled, I made my way here. It took a long time. I didn't know if I'd even make it to the Tower, if I'd be grabbed before that. Or as soon as I walked in the door. I don't...I didn't have any plans for what would happen after I got here. For what would happen if it didn't go like I thought."

  
   Because Tony turning him in had been a forgone conclusion in his mind.

  
   "You've been walking God knows how long with just a coat and a backpack? What's in there, anyway. Obviously not food."

  
   "There's a change of clothes and a toothbrush, stuff like that. I have about forty dollars left, I think."

  
   Tony grinned. The smile felt fake on his face. He ached for things to be normal. "Knowing you, I thought it would be full of weapons."

  
   Clint shrugged one scrawny shoulder. "I didn't bring any. Well, I have the pocketknife, if you would count that." A master assassin with no weapons. He had made himself defenseless.

  
   A thought struck Tony. "Where's your bow?" he asked suddenly. Clint had some collapsible ones that could get quite compact, but none that Tony had ever seen would be small enough to fit in a Jansport backpack.

  
   "They took it. That day when they arrested us, they took it then." Clint picked up his milk, swirled it around gently in the glass. Didn't drink.

  
   "I would guess you have twenty more at your house that you could have gotten."

  
   "Well, I didn't. They're all still there."

  
    Tony felt cold. "You can't be Hawkeye without a bow," he chided. His smile probably looked as phony as it felt.

  
   "I'm not Hawkeye any more, so it doesn't matter."

  
   They sat in silence for a long time. Clint picked at his sandwich a little, finished his milk, didn't touch the apple. Tony ate heartily to be a good influence, but everything tasted like ashes in his mouth.

  
   "I know you must be blame me," Tony said finally. His voice choked a little. "I blame me. Everything fell apart, and it's my fault."

  
   "My problems aren't on you, Tony." Clint's voice was quiet, exhausted. He coughed again. He put an elbow on the table and dropped his forehead onto his hand. His hair had dried by now but was a little damp at his hairline. Fever, Tony thought to himself.

  
   Clint sighed. "I got too greedy," he said hollowly. "I guess I thought I could have it all. And I fucked it up, badly. How many years did we work together? Three? Almost three? I don't know, it doesn't matter. None of you had any idea about my family, because I was careful. And ten years before that I was careful at Shield. I protected them. And then the Ultron thing happened, and we needed a safe place, and I thought 'Why not?'" He laughed sadly. "That it would be okay. That nothing could ever happen, that I would never _not_ trust the rest of you. But I guess I know better than that now."

  
   Tony put his hands over his face. He didn't want to hear any more.

  
   "For awhile, I had it all. I had Shield, I had Strike Team Delta, I had my family, and then I had the Avengers, too. But it was too much for a normal guy to hang onto, and piece by piece it all just fell away. First Shield went down, and I had been there for twenty years. Then the Avengers broke apart, not just ending, but all of us even fighting one another. And then when the four of us sat in prison I knew if I ever got out I would have to move as fast as I could, to hide Laura and the kids from the rest of you. To get them somewhere where they could be safe from everyone, even from me. Where I couldn't put them in harm's way again."

  
   "We can fix everything," Tony said urgently, as Clint shook his head. "We can, I know we can. We can all work things out and it can be, well, maybe not like before, but...it can still be alright. You can get your family back."

  
   Clint shook his head again. "It's over."

  
   "It doesn't have to be. We don't have to let it be."

  
   Clint sighed and they fell silent again, each lost in his own thoughts. Tony got up after awhile and put the dishes in the sink. He went back and this time sat on the couch, waiting, and after a few moments Clint came over sat down stiffly beside him.

  
   "Where are the others?"

  
   "Who?" Tony was confused.

  
   "Rhodey, Vision, you know." Clint shrugged. " _Those_ guys."

  
   "They aren't here." _Natasha_ , Tony realized then--Clint had been hoping he would see Natasha. "I heard Widow had gone with Cap to break you all out of the pokey."

  
   "She did. But I left with Wanda to get Laura and the kids. I don't know where Nat went after that. I guess I thought she would come back here." His eyes lost a little of their blankness at the thought of Natasha. They looked sad.

  
   "She wouldn't come here," Tony said. "But she might now, with you here. I don't know how to get in touch with her, but I bet you do. Natasha would make there be a way for you to find her."

  
   "Maybe."

  
   "Definitely." Tony put a tentative hand on Clint's arm. "You being back would bring her back. Then we can find the others. It could be good again." He wanted that more than anything. Wanted Clint to want it, too.

  
   "I didn't come here to start over," Clint said finally. "I came here to finish what happened before."

  
   "It _is_ finished. You said you were here for whatever happened next. Well, this is it."

  
   Clint didn't answer, but he didn't say no either, and for now Tony counted that as a victory. "How about," he continued, "you plan on staying here for awhile. Rest up, get well at the very least. How about a good night's sleep, and then breakfast, and then we start looking for the others?"

  
   Clint looked uncertain, but also tired, so tired. He leaned a little on the arm of the couch, pressing back into the deep cushions. "I...I don't know."

  
   "It's okay," Tony assured him. "Start with a nap then. Just close your eyes, I'll keep watch." Clint was going to relent, he could see it in the way the other man's eyes already drooped. He coughed again, this time for a longer period, sounding terrible and panting a little at the end. Then dropped his head back heavily against the couch, asleep instantly.

  
   Tony carefully rose and went to retrieve a blanket. He came back and spread it carefully over his sleeping friend, who did not stir. Tony sat back down and watched him, remembering sadly and fondly another time they had sat here together. Tony had gotten a new shoot 'em up video game and woken Clint in the middle of the night, demanding they play it. Bruce had found them still there the next morning, laughing like loons, Tony holding up a can of Red Bull with a straw in it to Clint's mouth, Clint drinking furiously while never taking his eyes from the game, fingers flying on the controller.

  
   "What _are_ you doing?" Bruce had asked incredulously, taking in a spread of empty energy drink cans and tortilla chips.

  
   "We've been drinking Red Bulls and killing bad guys allll niiiight, Brucie," Tony had crowed, so wired he could barely sit still. "This kid is a savant at first person shooter. He's a GAMING GOD!"

  
   "Allllll niiiiight!" Clint had echoed, still focused on the game, but laughing hysterically when Tony started laughing, and dug his back into the couch cushions, burrowing in, bare feet up on the coffee table. Bruce had shaken his head at them and went to start the morning coffee, and Clint had laughed again, happily.

  
   Tony heard the echo of that laughter now in his mind as he looked at his friend, his face thin and sick and sad instead of happy.

  Maybe in the morning he would feel better, feel stronger after some sleep.  Maybe he would eat the food that Tony made. Maybe he would help him find Natasha. Then Bruce. Then Steve. Maybe then Thor would come back.

  
   Maybe.

  
   Tony turned his body and sat sideways on the couch so he could watch Clint sleep. He slipped his feet under the edge of the blanket and waited. Waited for Clint to wake up.

  
   Waited to face whatever was going to happen next.


End file.
